


Gunshot

by Annie46fic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Guns, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie46fic/pseuds/Annie46fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is shot by Dean.  It’s an accident but Sam knows Dean will never forgive himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunshot

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the [Bullet Wounds square on my H/C bingo card](http://annie-46fic.livejournal.com/243580.html). It is also a bit all over the place. I was trying to illustrate how I see Sam’s current mental state – his brain a little bit fried by the various things that have happened to him over the years! Blood addiction/the crumbling wall/the trials.  
> I hope you like it any way. The ending is a bit lame!

Sam can just about recall the last time he was shot.

He thinks it was those hunter guys that did it – Walt and Roy – and he doesn’t remember it hurting that much. Just three or four sharp stabs in his chest and then nothing until he woke up in heaven during a Thanksgiving dinner.

Sam knows there were other times; the bitch Bela who shot him in the shoulder, the feel of the bullet passing through the meat of his bicep. It had made him realize just how much he had hurt Dean when he had shot him while Meg had possessed him. The guilt far more painful than the bullet had been.

He guesses that when he was soulless he might have gotten into a few scrapes but, again, it is hard to know. There are a few scars that he can’t explain and he wonders; wonders what he had done to deserve it, wonders if the person who hurt him did it for a reason. Sometimes, he hates those deep dark holes in his brain but more often than not he is grateful for them.

Now though, he isn’t actually thinking anything; the pain in his gut radiates out to his sides, down his thighs, into his lower spine. Blood warm and wet seeps through his interlocked fingers and all he can hear through the roaring in his ears is his brother’s voice frantic and desperate.

“Sammy,” Dean keeps saying. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.”

****

Gut shots are the worse – that’s what dad always said. 

Not just the pain but the fact that you are bleeding out, slow, oozing. Your life dripping out of you drop by drop. 

Sam hunches over himself, holding his guts tight in his hands. His head feels light almost disconnected from his body. His mouth is dry and his head hurts, his eyes watering.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Dean is panicking. Sam knows the signs, he can see his brother running his hands over his hair frantically, his cell phone stuck to his ear. “It was such a fucking stupid thing to do,” Dean’s mouth is running but Sam is certain he doesn’t have any idea what he is saying. “If only that fucking angel still had his mojo. I know you hate hospitals, little brother, but you have to . . . you have to go, okay?”

Sam knows that much; the pain is so bad he is certain that even a hospital won’t help this time. He wants to laugh but he can’t, he hurts too much, hurts all over from top to fucking toe. Surviving the apocalypse, the cage, insanity, purgatory and the trials only to die bleeding out in a fucking dingy motel room. Wasn’t that just the Winchester way . . . ?

****

The paramedics want to know everything and Sam is in no state to tell them. It looks bad, it looks so fucking bad. Sam on the floor bleeding from the gut, Dean against the wall, a gun with his fingerprints all over it on the floor. Weapons all over the motel room in various states of repair. God, it was all such a fucking mess and Sam was surprised no one had called the cops yet.

“I was cleaning it,” he could hear his brother’s voice low, pleading. “That’s the fucking truth. Yeah – yeah, I have a license for it. For fuck’s sake, what does it matter now? My brother is bleeding out, you have to get him to hospital. H-he’s gonna die, isn’t he?”

Sam is losing it. Darkness is encroaching thick and fast. The whooshing in his ears is loud now, louder than anything else he can hear. He waits for the reaper to appear at his feet, waits to see Bobby or dad or even fucking Jess. He is dying and before he knows he will be back at that Godforsaken Thanksgiving dinner and his brother will be alone.

That can’t happen, not now, not like this.

He just can’t leave Dean alone again.

****

Sam cannot ever remember having candy bought for him before.

Sure Amelia made him a birthday cake and surprised him with a picnic and Jess had often surprised him with a CD or a Henley in the right size but nothing like this.

He opens his eyes in a hospital bed; he knows this because of the smell, the feel of a needle in his hand (something he hates), the itchy strapping across his gut and the cannula sitting uncomfortably in his nostrils. Everything that hurt before has stopped and he knows he is on the good stuff but he’s alive. He survived a gut shot and he rolls his head on the pillow to see Dean sitting next to him clutching the biggest box of candies Sam had ever seen.

“Hey.” His brother’s eyes are red rimmed. “I – hey,” he sounds hoarse as if he has been smoking again. “Sam,” he says and it seems to break him.

“They for me?” Sam tries to speak but his voice is rough, so soft he is certain Dean doesn’t hear him. He wants to reach out for his brother but he can’t, he feels too weak, and light-headed but in a good way. “I – are they really for me?”

“You can have them as soon as you are on solids.” Dean drops like a stone to his knees and grabs Sam’s arm. “Sam,” he says the name as if he can’t stop saying it. “Sammy.”

“They let you go.” Sam’s fingers come up and try to pull the oxygen cannula off. Dean slaps his wrist gently.

“Yeah.” He is still clutching the box of candies. “They checked the license, questioned me for two long fucking painful hours.” He rubs at his eyes again. “You were in ICU,” he choked out. “Thought you were gonna die and they kept me there for two fucking hours.”

“I’m not dead,” Sam stated, stupidly.

“I shot you,” Dean virtually whimpered. “I fucking shot you!”

Sam shook his head and then stopped, deciding it hurt way too much.

“It was an accident,” he yawned, tired now, his eyes fixed on the candies, the longing to eat them almost painful.

“Yeah.” Dean licked his lips and gazed out of the window at the darkening sky. “But it doesn’t’ make it any better.”

****

Sam didn’t remember the final trial that well now.

He remembered Crowley crying, asking how he could possibly be forgiven for his many sins. He remembered the pain in his arms and hands, he remembered Dean stopping him, dragging him out of the church, watching the angels fall.

Now as he struggled into his shirt, careful and slow, he could only really recall the journey back to the bunker and how they stayed there for weeks while he recovered. He swallowed on his still dry throat and stared at the half empty box of candy. They’d started hunting again, tentative, not looking for monsters but fallen angels. Dean wouldn’t let him do anything more than research and he had been getting frustrated.

In one motel, out of pure boredom he’d started to clean the weapons. Dean had come back with burgers, salad and a six pack. They’d actually laughed, Dean had taken one of the older guns apart and was struggling to put it back together again after three beers and a slug of Jack. Sam doesn’t know what happened and he is glad really. Glad his brain had managed to block out the image of Dean pointing the gun at him, the bloom of pain, the screaming.

At the time he thought it was him making all the noise – now – now he knows it was his brother.

**** 

Sam’s brain had never been right since his wall came down, not really.

Cas had taken away most of the crazy but losing Dean had brought it all back again. The trials hadn’t helped, not really and Sam had regretted losing some of his sharpness, the ability to remember everything that had happened to him, the fuzzy recollections that were just an assortment of pictures and sounds.

Now he was glad that his mind didn’t work as well as it used to. He didn’t want to think about being shot, didn’t want to think about what it had done to his brother. As it was he could remember Dean’s face, his wide green eyes, his mouth open wide, his skin white, splatters of Sam’s blood across his nose merging with the freckles Sam had always loved.

Now they sat in the bunker, Sam stiff and still hurting, Dean silent and afraid.

“We can’t let this come between us.” Sam leaned forward finally, his hands reaching out and capturing Dean’s. “Not after everything.”

“I’m sorry.” Dean clasped at Sam’s fingers. “It was such a fucking stupid accident. I should’ve known fucking better. I nearly killed you.” He shrugged. “Again.”

“I barely remember it,” Sam said, honestly. “And I’m better now.” He smiled. “I remember the candy though.” He leaned closer. “You know, it made me feel better.”

Dean’s mouth curved a little, grin wavering.

“You tryin' for some more candy, Sammy?”

“Maybe some chocolate.” Sam felt warm again. Home. Safe.

“Anything,” Dean sounded on the verge of tears again and Sam shook his head.

“Just some beer, some candy and you,” he yawned. “And maybe a few hours of sleep in a proper bed.” He leaned back. “One with memory foam.”

“We could watch a movie.” Dean looked relieved, his pale face flushing just a little, his shaking hands stilling. “One without violence or guns.” He shrugged. “I hear, ‘Up’ is on the Disney channel.”

“Yeah.” Sam knew he had watched that movie before but he didn’t remember when or who with. He knew that he would never be right again, knew his mind wasn’t the sharp tool it had once been. He also knew Dean wouldn’t ever forget this, would beat himself up over it for years to come. He knew Dean wouldn’t let him hunt for months, would wrap himself around Sam like a protective blanket. He knew Dean better than he knew himself right now and he was certain that Dean wouldn’t be handling a gun for a while. “Let’s do that.”

****

Sam can just about recall the last time he was shot; he knows it was his brother that did it, knows Dean didn’t mean it, that it was an accident that almost killed him. He knows Dean remembers more than him, that Dean still feels guilty about it. He knows Dean was petrified that he had lost Sam again, that he had saved Sam from the trials only to kill him himself.

Doesn’t matter to Sam. He remembers the important things, things like how much his brother loves him, how much his brother cares for him, how much his brother has done for him over the years.

It’s enough.

End


End file.
